


splinter by splinter

by theultimateburrito



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Gratuitous Ballet References, Nightmares, Raven's Blood Mytho, Surrealism, Swan Lake (Freeform), Transformation, light gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theultimateburrito/pseuds/theultimateburrito
Summary: As of late Mytho has felt sostrange. What must feel like being violently put back together in the wrong direction, a house rebuilt splinter by splinter.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	splinter by splinter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chillydown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chillydown/gifts).



The world of the dream is a lake cast all in blues and greens, surrounded with brush-stroke suggestions of a forest, calm and insulating. Would be isolating if Mytho was alone in the dream. He never is. 

A woman he knows, but can’t place how, cowers before him at the lake’s edge. She weeps, silent and angry tears rolling off of her face. Mytho opens his mouth to speak, an explanation or a question maybe, but before he can, she spits, bitterly--

“I will never forgive you. Never.”

He moves to kneel beside her, imploring, reaching to take her hands in his. He begs the woman for forgiveness, pleads with her. Instead she wrenches her hands away. In the motion he realizes his own powerlessness. He holds no sway over her heart, not anymore. A broiling anger seizes over him, then, and he is powerless to that too. 

In a fury he snatches the crown from her head, and throws it into the lake beside them. It should have no depth, but the crown sinks weighty into the water of the lake.

“What have you done?” she cries, but the sound is wrong. Closer. The voice is coming out of his own mouth. Mytho is on the ground, perhaps always was, weeping, in a body that does not belong to him. “I am dying!"

He realizes the truth of the statement as he says it. This body aches with hollowed bones and a splintered heart, dying all around him. 

He looks up at the prince he was supposed to be and finds unfeeling steely eyes looking back at him. A thrill runs through his blood. 

"Willing or unwilling, you will always remain with me!"

The prince he was supposed to be grabs the helpless cursed thing he has become and plunges the both of them, both bodies, into the lake. He is drowning before the water can touch them at all. It rises above its own surface, desperate to meet them. And all at once it draws them down, down, down.

\--

Mytho retches unproductively into the sink, his ragged breaths echoing loud and ugly off of the bathroom tile. As if it will make the whole thing quieter, somehow, he wrenches his eyes shut. Behind his eyelids Mytho tries to remember the dream, but it’s completely gone. Though its side-effects linger unpleasantly, prickling hot-cold at the edge of his brow and washing over him in waves. Feeling this keenly, Mytho presses his forehead against the mirror, revels in the grounding it provides. The briefest sensation of relief.

As of late he’s felt so _strange_. What must feel like being violently put back together in the wrong direction, a house rebuilt splinter by splinter. 

“ _You’ll feel better when it’s out_ ,” he remembers Fakir telling him as he rubbed soothing circles over Mytho’s back. He was glad to have someone who could tell him what “better” felt like. The reassurance that whatever’s wrong with him is soon to leave. There’s no one here to help him understand this sharp, unnameable thing that stings at his heart.

He clutches tight-knuckled to the sink’s porcelain edges. A feverish damp overwhelms Mytho from all angles; pajamas clinging sticky to his skin, his shaky breathing fogging up the glass just before his face. 

_Stop it_ , he urges himself weakly. _Please, stop._

There’s a knock at the door.

“Mytho?” Fakir’s voice calls, weighted with concern. Mytho turns against the mirror, not having the energy to push himself away. His hair twists painfully in the movement. Slowly he cracks one eye open to look at the only thing that stands between them. “Is something wrong?”

He opens and closes his mouth, trying to find the words and coming up empty. In spite of the pervasiveness of pain, of wrongness, he can’t pin down what it is. Just that it _is_. The answer slips through his fingers when he tries to grasp at it. Somewhere, he knows that these are wrong feelings. And there’s a difference between strange and wrong. 

“Mytho?” Fakir asks again, louder. The doorknob shakes with a hastily aborted turn. 

It’s some doing to peel himself away from the sink, but Mytho manages. Even manages to shamble over in a few sluggish steps. With a soft click, he cracks the door open and presses his face against the frame. Through the perpendicular sliver, Fakir looks back at him. Up, then down, quickly, eyes wide and tired. 

“Yes?” Mytho’s voice croaks, awful. The sickly bathroom light catches on a bead of sweat prickling at Fakir’s forehead, and Mytho watches it drip off of his face.

Fakir starts, “What’s--” Then stops himself. Reassesses. “Is… everything okay?”

Half-heartedly, Mytho smiles. It must look wrong on him, somehow, because Fakir makes a face.

Mytho opens his mouth to say that he’s fine, but that isn’t what comes out. Mytho’s voice says, “I thought you had all the answers, Fakir.” 

That isn’t what he said. 

That isn’t what he wanted to say. 

Fakir looks almost as surprised as Mytho feels, though the sudden wobble of anxiety in his eyes displays it more plainly.

“...What?”

Mytho can feel his mouth smiling. In the motion, his cheek catches a sliver of wood from the doorframe. 

“It’s nothing.”

“You don’t look well...” Cautiously, Fakir suggests: “You should get some sleep.”

Mytho doesn’t feel like laughing at all but his body shakes with a chuckle. “What, close my eyes and hope it goes away? That’s very like you.” 

A piece of Fakir seems to break away a little. Near as Mytho can tell, that’s hurt, but it looks more like fear.

Tentatively, he comes back. “Mytho, what are you--” 

Sharp pain drives itself suddenly into Mytho’s head. The dull ache that’s been pulsing against Mytho’s eye is no longer background noise. He presses the heel of his palm against his eyelid, but it does nothing to alleviate the sting. Between the thin flesh he can feel it pulsing. Distantly he can hear Fakir trying to speak louder than whatever’s gotten into his head, but his voice sounds far away, almost underwater. At his periphery he can see the impression of him leaning forward, reaching out. 

It’s washed away and gone as quickly as it arrived. Fakir’s words surface--

“Mytho, I can help just--” 

“Leave!” Mytho shouts. His own words, in his own voice. Quieter now, almost ashamed of that, he says, “Just… go away.”

He doesn’t look at Fakir as he shoves the bathroom door closed. 

Mytho leans his shoulder heavily against the door and stares at his hands. They’re trembling, he thinks, but they look still to his eyes. Maybe all of him is trembling and he just can’t tell. He exhales heavily, shaky, as the echoes of pain slowly quiet.

What’s the matter with him? There’s got to be something wrong.

From the doorframe he turns back to look at the mirror, in search of answers in the sweaty pallor of his own face. Two seconds too late, his reflection turns its head.

\--

Perhaps the storm was always around them, just behind and out of view. But it's all-encompassing now. 

Clouds descend upon Mytho and his prince in a heavy swirl, deafening gusts of wind tossing them like ragdolls, kicking up debris left and right. Mytho can't see, can't hear-- all he can do is wait. Anger swells in his chest. Is he powerless here too? 

Just like that, as soon as they came, the clouds have lifted. It's like blinking only to find you've slept the night through. But this dream persists well into waking. And isn't that a more frightening idea?

Dashed upon the rocks is his prince, eyes wide and vacant, crown still upon his head. Oh, his head. What's happened to it? Mytho crumbles to kneel beside the prince. Blood trickles from his skull and into the lake beside him, like a river meeting the sea. Mytho wails at the sight of it. He screams and he screams until his throat is raw, but not a single sound comes out. Not when he pounds his fists against the wet earth beside his dead prince. Not when he weeps full-bodied into his prince's sunken chest. 

Mytho is left to mourn alone by the lakeside. He cannot tell if he's a swan or a man anymore, but it doesn't matter. There's no one else to tell him.

\--

If the class notices a change in Mytho, it’s not met with concern. If anything, they love him now more than ever. Why he can’t imagine, but doesn’t question. Even doubled over at the bar, pain seizing his heart in a vice grip, the students coo over him. He should want to turn away, but the larger part of him, the one that rests lingering hands over those that reach for him, hungers so deeply for their love that it gnaws painfully at his stomach. He drinks in the adoration in his classmates eyes. And that satiates it, at least for a moment. So he gives, allows, indulges. And for a moment that clawing knot within him eases. 

Words pile unsaid behind his teeth but Mytho swallows them down. Surprise of all surprises, it doesn’t feel wrong anymore. 

The class flocks out, twittering all the way, and Mytho walks along with them, shoulder-to-shoulder. Close enough where he can feel the heat from a girl’s flushed cheek radiating against his neck. Before they part ways, he stops to twirl the curl of a girl’s ponytail with his finger before shooing her away, knowing well that she’ll be back. With a smile still on his face, he breaks away from the group and heads down the stairwell leading outside. Rue stands at the bottom, eyes already on him.

Smug satisfaction draws Mytho’s grin out wider. He commits to standing midway-up the steps, the flight of stairs above him casting strips of light and shadow across his face. 

“Kind of you to wait for me,” he says with the ease of dramatic irony, of knowing that both players are keenly aware of what happened just outside this scene. Playing into that while playing dumb. 

“You don’t leave me much choice,” Rue replies.

“That’s funny.” Mytho reaches beneath his collar to itch at his neck. “ You think we have choices?”

Rue narrows her eyes at him.

“I made it, didn’t I?”

“Don’t push it,” It’s meant to hurt, probably, but the words seem to have changed from mind to mouth. She bites, but she loves too much for the teeth to break skin. It almost makes Mytho feel sorry for her. 

He hums. “Are you that greedy?”

Halfway between a scoff and a laugh, Rue shapes her mouth around the words. “ _Me_ , greedy?”

“You are,” Mytho insists. “Even though you’ll have my heart in the end, you can’t stand to see how they all love me. It makes your skin crawl.”

Her knuckles are white where she grips tight at the hem of her skirt. 

“Maybe you should get it over with, then. Just take my heart out for yourself before anyone else can get to it.” He descends the staircase, hand over heart. Fingers inching toward his lapel. “Would you like that, Rue?” 

She seems to startle at that, at the way he draws closer.

“Do I look different to you?” He asks, itching behind his ear. “You look at me differently.” 

Right now, Rue isn’t looking at him at all. At least she’s trying not to. Her eyes are vigilant, like some kind of frantic animal. 

“I’m the same,” He promises. It tastes like a lie on his tongue. Mytho takes another step closer to Rue. She jumps, then, in spite of herself. That twists the knife in his heart, just a little, just enough. It _stings_. 

Whatever confidence possessed him moments ago crumples in on itself. Mytho feels a bit winded, though he doesn’t double over with the feeling. Instead he scratches at the persistent itch behind his ear, looking away from the fear blooming in Rue’s eyes.

She gasps, “Mytho your--” 

“Forget this happened,” He murmurs. “Go on without me, I forgot something in the classroom.”

Rue bites her tongue. Mytho doesn’t look up to see her walk away but he feels her hesitation at the edge of his vision. As she heads off he rubs a hand over his mouth, contemplative. Bites at his thumbnail, a bad habit he only recently developed. Rue’s never acted like this before and he… he... His thoughts trail off as he nibbles more uncertainty at his nails. Something feels off.

Mytho brings his hand up in front of his face and finds blood beneath his fingernails. Fresh. The itch at his neck rings louder and he taps it quickly, twice. When he pulls his fingers away they come back red.

The sink squeals as Mytho turns the faucet as far as it will go. The second story bathroom is blessedly empty, so his uniform jacket is carelessly tossed over the sink beside him. Heeding the blood on his hand, he gingerly rolls his shirt sleeves up, enough so the gush of water won’t soak them. He wonders how long he’s been bleeding and wonders more frantically how he didn’t notice. Looking in the mirror now he can see a small trickle of blood that’s flowed down to stain at the edge of his collar. Mytho splashes a quick swat of water against it, clearing it away just a little. Not much at all. More intentionally he rubs at it. The skin under his fingertips feels strange.

 _No,_ A part of himself corrects. _Wrong._

Mytho tilts his chin upward, hissing as he prods at the texture. The water has cleared the blood now so he can see it just enough. Beneath his fingertips, just behind his jawline, there are bumps. Small, no more than tiny pinpricks, but ample. With a trembling hand Mytho gently runs his fingers across the small expanse of skin. If he turns his shoulder forward enough, he can see that a concentrated cluster of bumps have small black dots at the center. A cold rush washes over him, down his spine the clearer his impression gets. 

There's something _under_ them.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Mytho steels himself. Then, he plucks at one. Pinches the tips of his fingernails at the peak of one of the bumps. In his ministrations, it becomes quickly apparent that the specks of black aren't surface-level. They are long and deep, like a sliver lodged beneath his skin. Mytho picks and prods at it, and slowly, steadily it begins to slide out. It's nearly the size of a sewing needle. He can feel its slow withdrawal from inside his neck. It leaves a hollow feeling in its wake. He suppresses a shudder.

Then, just like that, it's out.

Between his fingers, from out of his neck, Mytho pulls a small, black pinfeather. Coated in his blood, it slowly begins to dry against the air. Small pieces spring up, away from each other. It looks sickly and undeveloped. Embryonic. Mytho stares at it, trying to decide what to make of it, but his eyes can't focus like they should. Instead his eyes catch on all of the bumps, on the pinpricks of black, that spread down his neck. 

_Undeveloped_ , he thinks.

\--

By the lakeside of the dream, Mytho’s prince mourns him fiercely. From the opposite shore Mytho watches through the eyes of a dying swan. There’s nothing he can do to ease the prince’s heart, as his eyes cloud and fail. All he can do is watch and bear the feeling that weighs on them both. The prince’s body is not his own but Mytho experiences the grief that impales him as if it was. It’s as deep as the lake by which he rests. Unfathomable. 

His feathers look sickly to his dying eyes, tarnished with an unnameable curse. This is not his body, he knows. The others in the dream, there are always others, used to know this, too, but no longer seem to care. If this is what he is now, then this is what he was always: A pathetic, sorry bird who can’t even cry; for himself, for anyone. 

His prince grieves and grieves. This is not the body his prince mourns; it’s not the body Mytho mourns even as it fails and fades away. 

There is nothing left of him.

**Author's Note:**

> the dream/nightmare sequences are based on alternate endings to swan lake in this order: the 1877 libretto (the dialogue is wholesale from this, it's incredibly good), 2010 national ballet of canada, 2006 new york ballet. i also casually reference the last unicorn, casually
> 
> thanks to my gift recipient for the wonderful prompts, it really got me excited! revisiting an old fandom is always a joy and i had so much fun with this. hope you enjoy it!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [i could make you bleed (the splinter by splinter remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26726764) by [Scytale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scytale/pseuds/Scytale)




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